Two Steps Back
by syndomatic
Summary: "All you want to do is run away," he sneers, watching her flinch. — AU, Duck & Emily


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"So you're Emily," he says, pulling off the ring from his can of tea. "Thomas told me a lot about you."

The smile he gives her is a friendly one, but her throat tightens and she fails to catch the hint of sharpness underneath. Emily stares down at her own half-empty can and sighs, her breath catching. "Is that so?" Her voice is dry. It's only first break. She's thirsty and she doesn't have time for this.

"All good things, I assure," Montague—sorry, Duck (she still hasn't gotten around to figure out the meaning of _that_ nickname just yet)—continues, stopping just beyond the edge of comfort. "I'm sure you're aware."

_Unbelievable. _Emily wants to bury her face in her hands, or perhaps she wants to crush the can sitting in her palm. Or, better yet, Thomas' neck.

"More than I'd like to," she replies instead, taking a sip, basking in its appropriate sourness. It's already been months since he pulled the stunt on Valentine's Day and she's still recovering from the embarrassment.

Duck doesn't press on. He shakes his head thoughtfully and leans against the wooden bench, as though he understands, and finishes his tea in silence. He returns the next day and the day after that.

Emily appreciates it more than she should.

* * *

She's fresh out of the second floor bathroom stall when he catches her two weeks later, a stack of papers in his hand. Emily recognizes them immediately; notifications for the talent show next Saturday. She notices the boy carrying it second, and returns his convincingly carefree smile with one of her own.

"Duck," she greets, struggling not to call him by his first name (which, frankly, is every bit as ridiculous as his nickname). "What is it?"

"The notifications." He points to the stack, papers full of tacky large letters printed in bold colors. He's pinned down the student body's (lack of) taste so perfectly; she's impressed. "I promised Edward I would print them out for him," he says. "His printer broke down all of a sudden."

The mention of his name catches her attention, tempts her to press on about it. Duck is the class representative of 10-8, she remembers, and Edward is the student council president. Are they friends? He probably knows _him_ by extension. Does he know about Ja—

"Why are you giving them to me?" she asks instead, hoping he didn't notice her eyes flashing, and absently checks her skirt for any missed creases. She has an image to uphold, after all.

"Edward called in sick today. That's why I'm giving them to you instead of him."

"What about Toby?"

He shrugs. "Him too."

"Couldn't you just leave it in the office?" It's four in the afternoon and she just wants to go home already; now she knows why the student council meeting was pushed back. Knowing Edward, he probably would've carried on with it anyway unless he was forced against it.

Duck huffs, crossly, in a petty way. It doesn't look good on him. "I would, but Edward always locks the door before he leaves, and you're the only other student council member at— hey! Are you listening?"

Emily's eyes flash with alarm when she notices the dark-haired boy standing in front of class 10-1, his bag in hand and self-proclaimed best friend by his side. His eyes are flashing with something, too, but she doesn't give herself time to figure out what it is. She yanks Duck away by his free arm, making him yelp in protest and hold onto his papers as she drags him downstairs with a speed she didn't know she had. She hopes he sees them.

"I've got a spare key," she explains, her tone urgent. She'll have to apologize about it later when they get there.

"You'll leave a bruise," he grimaces, but his voice is lighthearted. He doesn't even try to ask her what that was about; Emily catches him rolling his eyes when they're down on the first floor, and feels ashamed for more reasons than one.

"Sorry," she says lamely, once she catches her breath, staring at the—indeed—freshly-blooming stain on his forearm.

Duck just laughs.

* * *

The student council office is located at the very end of the first floor's secondary hallway, wedged between the arts club room and the vending machine that faithfully supplies her favorite brand of canned lemon tea. The room itself is completely nondescript, save for the laminated sign pasted on the door. _Student Council Office_, she reads, digging into her skirt pocket for the key.

"It's rainy these days," Duck remarks. "It'll only get worse later. I don't know why Edward insisted on holding an outdoor event considering the weather."

"Taken care of." The doorknob turns with a squeak. She'll have to report it later. "We're getting tarpaulin to cover up the stage, so there won't be a repeat of last year." She doesn't know the details exactly, but from what she's heard from the upperclassmen (they refused to tell her when she asked, likely under the threat of a possible black eye), her best guess is that it involved 11-4's ace basketball player and his apparent fear of being rained on (she still has trouble wrapping her head around _that_).

"Clever."

Emily smiles impulsively. "Edward's idea."

"I thought so."

The office is cleaner than usual, the floor smelling of apples and the windowsills free of dust and the desks arranged meticulously in such a way that lets everybody know that Arthur is in charge of cleanup duty this week. She doesn't know whether to feel impressed or pity.

"Where should I put these?" Duck asks, as she's inspecting her reflection on the pristine floor tiles.

She swiftly points to the general direction of the bureau. "Over there would be fine, thank you," she says, feeling more annoyed than she should be.

Duck affirms with a mumbled "alright," that Emily barely hears. She spares a glance outside the windows—she ought to get home soon—and wonders if James is still playing football with himself in the yard, before turning away.

"Are you done?" she calls. He's flipping through the pages of a dossier. Some of the more senior student council members, unbeknownst to Edward, have taken it to themselves to write one down. Emily yearns for the day she'll be allowed to actually open it. Duck seems to be unaware of the repercussions.

"I was about to say the same thing to you," he says, deadpan. He puts away the book. "What were you staring at?"

"It's nothing to do with you," she retorts defensively.

"He's not there, you know," he says smugly, smiling at the shame written all over her face. "Anyway, it's late. You're going home too, aren't you?"

"I have to fetch my bag upstairs first," she replies, because she worries he'll know if she's lying and she's already felt enough embarrassment for a day.

"So do I."

* * *

"Sorry you had to stay behind," Edward—who, to nobody's surprise, has recovered from his flu within the span of a day—says from behind a notebook, after the student council meeting is done. The talent show is coming up soon; he's making budget arrangements while she helps out with the decorations. Frankly, she thinks the whole event is a waste of time; admittedly, however, she can't exactly complain about the current state of affairs, can she?

Emily's gaze linger at him. "It's okay," she says, smiling (hopefully) warmly enough. She's wearing her hair down, today, one side of her hair pinned back neatly with a barrette. Her legs kick softly back and forth underneath the desk, itching to do something. Her free hand, dirty with paint and glue, tightens beside her. "It's not like I've got anything else to do after school, anyway."

He chuckles, "you and me both."

* * *

Duck is waiting outside when they're done, a plastic bag in hand.

"How long have you been here?" Edward asks.

"Not very long," he replies, wearing what might just be the most sincere smile she's seen of him. (_A while_, he doesn't say, though she hears it loud and clear.) Her chest feels tight when she catches the sight of canned beverages inside the bag, cherry and lemon tea and coffee in the middle. "I brought some drinks."

The vending machine next door is out of stock. Emily swallows. "Thank you," she says. "My favorite, too."

"I'm glad. I was worried you were going to make a fuss about it," he retorts, sipping his cherry-flavored tea (how he manages to like it, she'll never know).

Edward laughs. "That's awfully considerate of you."

"Don't be so surprised," he says, sounding mock-hurt. His eyes are flashing with something she thinks she's seen before.

Duck and Edward are still talking by the time they're beyond the front gates; conversations about the weather and exams and whatever works. Emily listens silently, her hands tight at the strap of her bag, her heart rising and falling at the same time. They part ways at the intersection; she doesn't go further until she's sure both of them are out of sight.

* * *

He leans against the bench, head dangling from the edge of it. He looks tired; she pretends not to notice. The sky is cloudy. "Why did you wear your hair down?"

Emily inhales; twirls a lock of hair. "Because."

"You should tie them back again." Duck sighs. "He likes it better that way," he adds. Emily doesn't refute.

* * *

They bump in the hallway three days later, when she's on her way to the student council's office. Emily barely catches herself and calls for him, angrily demanding an apology. If he hears her, he doesn't let it show.

The news travel within a day or two. She walks home early for the rest of the week.

* * *

"Should I dye my hair blonde?" she absently asks him, when it's only the two of them in the office and neither Edward nor James are anywhere in sight. She doesn't really know why she's here. Her hair is braided this time, tied in place with red rubber bands she hasn't worn since she was ten. She looks like a child. Feels like one, too.

"What, like that Molly chick from 10-5?" Duck laughs, and takes a finishing gulp of what is probably his sixth can of tea. "You're unbelievable."

"Look who's talking." Emily sneers, reaching for another. "Last time I saw you, you were _this_ close to jumping him in the hallway," she says, grinning victoriously—yet bitterly—at the redness spreading across his cheeks.

"I'm not as pathetic as you are," he splutters, stubbornly.

"How?" she challenges.

"For one," he begins, "I am not in denial."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" she yells abruptly, her hands slamming into the desk, sending empty cans toppling all over the place. Arthur will get on her case later; she couldn't care less at this point.

"All you want to do is run away," Duck sneers, watching Emily flinch. "Do you enjoy it, going around in circles like that? I've always pegged you as a masochist—"

"That makes two of us," she mutters sourly, looking away, outside, at the green blades of grass and the overcast skies. Anywhere but him. She can't stand it, looking at herself and her own flaws. It makes her sick.

"Sorry," he says, after a moment of silence. "I just—"

"No, it's okay." She stares pointedly at the floor, mind muddled. Neither the cans nor her shoes offer any form of consolation. "Let's just— let's just go home."

"I'll walk you."

Emily doesn't quite know what to say. She settles for a smile.

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End file.
